


Ten Minutes, Five

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-05
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:51:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's attempts at wooing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Minutes, Five

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dogeared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/gifts).



Things get weird the day Steve cuffs a suspect (with actual handcuffs, and not a fist to the jaw) and says, "You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Have you heard and understood these rights?" The suspect, predictably, tells him to go fuck himself, and Steve hands him off to Officer Kahele before turning to look at Danny, grinning so broadly that Danny reflexively turns and looks behind him, in case someone's standing there with a gift-wrapped grenade launcher and a couple of twelve-inch knives.

"You're doing the paperwork on this one?" Danny asks.

"I'm gonna book him, Danno," Steve says, puffing up a little, and Danny feels his eyebrows rise without any conscious effort on his part.

"Okay," he says. "You have fun." And he'd back away, but they drove over together, and Steve still has the keys to the car.

***

Two days later, Steve drops a DVD on Danny's desk. "Yankees," he says.

Danny picks up the plain, store-bought jewel case and turns it over in his hands. "The musical?" he asks dubiously.

Steve frowns and tilts his head, looking at Danny with the expression that says he'd like to intimidate the source of his confusion into compliance, but isn't sure why he's confused in the first place. "There's a musical?"

Danny opens his mouth to elaborate, but thinks better of it. "Which Yankees?" he asks. "When Yankees?" And great, now he's talking to Steve as if they both only just gained verbal skills.

"Yesterday – DVR'd it. I mean, you probably saw the score already, but there's a pretty cool triple play and since you don't get satellite – "

Danny waves a hand, holds up a finger to beg for silence. "The Yankees _game_?" he asks.

"Yeah?"

"But you hate the Yankees."

Steve shrugs. "So?"

"Why would you tape the Yankees?"

"Look, I was doing other stuff." Steve looks a little shifty, and Danny fills in the details – _after work I made a half-dozen blow darts; I cleaned all my guns four times; I checked there was room to do a roundhouse on the landing, even if someone came at me from the bathroom_ – "I didn't have to watch the game or anything. I just thought you'd like to see it."

Danny would, he admits, like to see it – the coverage in the papers suggested the triple play was faintly orgasmic, and he really loves seeing the Sox get handed their asses on a plate. "Thank you," he says, and he's actually kind of touched. It's a stupid baseball game, and it's not like there won't be others, but still. "No, really, thank you."

Steve beams. "I just heard that Crawford's setting up an operation down at the docks. Wanna go stake it out?"

Danny considers the proposition. "Eh, sure." What else is he going to do?

***

Friday afternoon, and Crawford's decided the weekend's the perfect time to move his drugs, to play Bonnie Tyler's greatest hits on repeat while his minions pack keys of coke inside wooden crates marked 'Hasbro', and to take a couple of hostages just for the fun of it, because there's no way two tourists from Nebraska have anything he needs. Danny checks his weapon, runs a hand over the extra clips in his vest, and crouches so that he's ready to cover Steve when the idiot decides to drop-kick seven Uzi-toting bad guys and shoot Crawford in any one of his really annoying limbs. He's prepared for most things – flash bangs, tear gas, creative use of a loading dolly – but he actually chokes on air when he hears Steve on his phone behind him: "This is McGarrett, 5-0. We need back up, Hawaii Kai docks . . ."

"Back up?" Danny hisses. "Are you out of your _mind_?"

Steve blinks as if Danny's asking questions in moon-speak.

Danny reaches out and palms Steve forehead for signs of a fever. "Seriously, what is _with_ you?"

"They're dangerous," Steve says, gesturing with his gun.

"Hey," Danny says, shifting awkwardly. "Hey, hey, Mr. Navy Goddamn SEAL, they teach you anything about gun safety at School of the Water Parks? Huh? They teach you not to _wave your weapon_ in the face of your partner? Safety on, or point it at the bad guys, what am I even, how is this my job, telling _you_ how to handle a gun?"

Steve obligingly points his gun in the other direction. "Good point, thank you, I got it."

Danny gapes at him. "Are you a Borg?" he asks. "In all seriousness, for real, did they take the real McGarrett and bring in a T-1000? Is that actual skin I touched, or like, made in a lab?"

"You're rambling," Steve says helpfully, which is when an eighth minion finds them and they're forced to do their thing with extreme prejudice, but hey, the Nebraskans ask to take a photo with them afterwards, so clearly it's just one of those days.

***

Tuesday, Steve takes out a hacker in a parking lot with a completely unnecessary horizontal tackle. "What are you _doing_?" Danny yells when he gets up close. "Look at the guy – he was going to beat you in a regular foot race? You couldn't just grab him and cuff him, you had to roll him around a little beforehand?" He scuffs at broken glass and cigarette butts and loose concrete with his foot. "Look at this, does this look like a place to go ten rounds with Toast, Mark Two?"

Steve hands the hacker off to Chin, who has some very pointed questions to ask him, using language related to computers and the internet that Danny really, truly does not understand. "Just quicker," Steve says, and he winces as he straightens up fully.

"Oh great, now what did you do, pop an organ, reorganize your ligaments, crack seven ribs, what," Danny asks, and he can't help himself, he fusses with Steve's shirt, knowing Steve will smack his hand away and say it's nothing.

Only Steve doesn't – he lets Danny push up his tee, graze a thumb over the bruise that's already blooming, over the smattering of cuts all across his ribs. "Ow?" he offers, sucking in his breath when Danny touches him.

"How," Danny asks softly, genuinely concerned, because what is it with people around him not taking proper care of their body parts when body parts are vital things, "how is it that you manage to fuck yourself up in a parking lot when you have jumped out of _planes_?" He tugs Steve's shirt down. "You need that looked at."

"Okay."

Danny eyes him suspiciously. "I'm saying, maybe an x-ray or two. You fell kind of awkward, and he jammed you . . ." He makes a swift punching motion with his elbow.

"Can you drive?" Steve asks, and his expression is a picture, like he's asking Danny to draw pineapples on his ass or something of his own free will and can't quite believe it.

Danny takes a moment. "I'd be happy to drive you in my car, Steven." And he throws a look at Kono, gestures as if she might be able to help him figure this out, but she holds up both hands in surrender and Danny can only agree.

***

"I hate today," Danny says on Thursday. "I hate it. I hate the way it smells, the way it looks, and that it's almost seven and I'm still at my desk. I hate that I am hungry, and nothing sounds good, and I have two packets of Ramen at my place, and I'm out of coffee so I'll hate tomorrow too. I hate – "

"Come over," Steve offers, perched on Danny's desk, signing off on a case file. "I got food."

Danny sighs, and he knows he's making the puppy-dog face, he can't help it and he doesn't care. "Beer?"

"I got beer."

"All right. I can do that. I can drink your beer and eat your food."

Steve beams. "Awesome."

Ends up that when Steve says he has food, he means he's making pizza from scratch, dough and everything, and that he's going to install Danny on the lanai and make him take off his shoes and socks, and Danny's going to actually acquiesce because he's so fucking tired, and it sounds good, it really does. Danny takes off his tie of his own free will and idly wonders where Steve learned to make pizza dough, and if that was his specialty, along with being a sniper, and he's polished off two beers and is half-asleep by the time Steve brings out a pizza that's sauce and cheese and pepperoni on one half, and Danny feels so fucking grateful he could cry.

"Shit," he says, watching as Steve loads a slice onto a plate for him. "Oh my god, how am I so stupid?"

Steve cocks an eyebrow. "Huh?"

"You're _wooing_ me," Danny says, and he scrubs a hand over his face, forces himself to sit up in his chair. "You're actually, honest to god, _wooing_ me."

Steve's body language turns stiff and awkward, and he absolutely does not meet Danny's eyes. "Pfffft," he offers.

"No, shit, really – I mean – oh my god," Danny says, setting down his beer. "You like, with _rights_. And _back up_. And oh my fucking god I cannot believe – what? What can you not believe, Detective Williams, that this is how he wooed you, or that you are so, fucking, one hundred percent wooed?" And he gets out of his chair, slides a hand to the back of Steve's neck, kisses him. "What the hell."

There's a scattershot pink heat high on Steve's cheekbones. "Um," he manages, and Danny kisses him again, because the man just made him pizza and god, how did he not see this, and he doesn't even care, not with the way Steve's getting into it, kissing him back, making soft, pleased noises at the back of his throat.

"I want to fuck you stupid," Danny blurts, and it's not elegant, and it's not romantic, and he'll admit, it's not all that sexy, all told. But it's true, and Steve wets his lips, and his pupils are blown wide. "But," Danny adds, "we got this pizza, and I gotta eat this pizza, you understand?"

Steve laughs softly, ducks his head. "I can wait."

"Ten minutes," Danny says, sitting back down again, folding his slice in half and jamming it into his mouth. He waves his free hand to suggest, okay, maybe five. And Steve just grins at him, like he's been doing this whole goddamn time, and Danny chews a little faster because look at this, he's got Steve McGarrett making him pizza and wanting to have sex and he can handle this life, he really can.


End file.
